punish the son for the sins of the father
by The Famous Fire Lady M
Summary: Or, Logan's Life Wasn't An Easy One Fable 2 and 3 related headcanon/rp based drabbles Sparrow/Reaver, Sparrow/Walter, potential Logan/Reaver, eventual Ben Finn/Logan, Potential Ben Finn/Swift, Eventual Logan/Kalin.
1. Chapter 1

_punish the son for the sins of the father, Or;  
_

_ Logan's life definitely wasn't an easy one_

(subtitled; Reaver sucks at life and parenting and talking to other people so he gets drunk and fucks hookers because that's how normal people solve their problems)  
sparrow/Reaver, sparrow/Walter, potential Logan/Reaver, eventual Ben Finn/Logan, Potential Ben Finn/Swift, Eventual Logan/Kalin.

* * *

**An: -throws self into the seine- omfg i think this fic is magic. It's like a time travel inducing fic. Time goes by ridiculously fast when reading/writing it. Also this is mostly based on a shit ton of headcanons, like Reaver and Logan's relationship or the fact that Walter was into cougars. XD a friend and I did the math. If Walter is about 50-55 in fable III then sparrow would have been way older than him. XD and I ship that so hard. Also the writing style might switch around on y'all cause I'm just trying to find the voice. :0 Also! I'll explain more as time goes on ok! Also idk why but Reaver and Walter are so hard to wriiiiiite ;-; but sparrow isn't OTL also AAAAAANGST AAAAAAAAAANGST also any and all references to Reaver being an empty shell is figurative cause he's practically a sociopath, not meaning he is literally hollow. WARNING the timelines are a bit wonky and if they're off I apologize. They're not particularly true to canon because headcanons, so please bear with me. Parts of this may seem similar to other Fable fanfics out there, but that's also because a lot of people had headcanons that were similar I'd guess lol? **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of any of the Fable franchise. This is a not for profit fanwork. Thank you for reading.**

* * *

"No, Reaver, it's not.. You're not.." The queen made an incomprehensible hand gesture of despair between them; one unclear to anyone eavesdropping in the hallway.

"I understand, love." The Hero pressed dry yet still somehow ridiculously plump lips to her forehead. "I wouldn't want any little bastards of mine running around anyway." He feigned a soft laugh to hide the tremor underscoring his words, to hide the look of abject horror and disgust creeping its' way across his paled face.

Sparrow cast a derisive glance toward him, hearing the soft chuckle. "Of course, a man such as you would never allow anything of yours to be dirty or loud or any other things a child would be."

Reaver met her gaze, without flinching, his tone nonchalant. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I would rather not bring any life into this world when it could so easily be destroyed."

* * *

When Reaver first saw the child's face, he knew without a doubt, in the darkest, coldest recesses of where he assumed his heart was; the boy was his. That same hair color, the eyes. Reaver just _knew_, no matter what Sparrow believed, no matter what Sparrow told herself or her husband or even bloody Walter. And for the first time in years, centuries even, he found himself afraid. This child had been created from him. That had been a mistake from the start. Reaver somehow knew this child would only lead Albion to ruin, it would turn out the way it's father did, and destroy everything it loved. But no, this boy was the child of two Heroes, surely it wouldn't. Reaver could not concentrate with the voices in his head explaining away the reasons he should or should not be worried. But he knew what could fix that easily; a cask of wine and a few warm bodies in his bed.

* * *

Logan was five when his father first came to see him. Upon first impressions, the young prince knew the man was one of his mother's friends; he'd seen them about the castle discussing boring grown-up things while he run about underfoot, pretending to slay pirates and trolls and other monsters he had heard about in his stories.

The prince had been attempting to repair a wooden sword that had been a gift from his father, when the man himself (or so he claimed) had appeared to him. He had not guessed the impeccably-dressed man would show up when his mother had gone on a journey with another of her friends, a tall man with a booming voice who loved to tell him stories about heroes in shining armor. Logan very much preferred the man his mother had traveled with instead of the one lingering by the doorway in front of him. This one seemed less safe, in a way the boy could not name. It sent shivers down his spine and goose pimples pricked his skin.

"You look just like your mother." His father spoke, as if Logan had said hello first. The princeling was startled, looking up from where he had messily tied a makeshift sword belt to his trousers.

"My mother isn't here," Logan finally managed to answer, pulling out his cracked wooden sword and pointing it to the intruder, "I'm in charge of the castle while she is away!"

"What a brave prince you are!" The man (Weaver? Reader? Logan could not recall his name) called cheerfully, and the prince was clever enough to understand the man was making fun of him.

"State your business, knave!" Logan bellowed, as courageously as he could, his tiny voice wavering, "Before I run you through with this sword!"

"Ah, so very courageous, the little man is." The man strode into his room on loud boots, and Logan backed up, the pointed end of the sword aimed toward the rude intruder. "I'm warning you, sir!"

"Sir, he calls me." Reaver spoke softly, laughing, as if confiding to an invisible audience. "Your mother's son, I see." He laughed once more, eyes focused imperceptibly on the boy's features. "Do you know your father, lad?"

Logan shook his head, eyes fixed on the formidable form of the man in front of him.

"Do _you _know him?" The prince had asked.

"Of course.." Reaver enthusiastically replied, putting his hand out and easily jerking the little wooden sword out of the child's grip.

"Do you even know how to fight with this?" He had responded, as if distracted by the jagged line going down the blade to the handle. Following the line of the sword's crack with his fingertip, Reaver looked up at the boy. "Show me the stance you favor for sword fighting."

After a moment's hesitation, Logan jumped to action, following Walter's training.

"Good, good." Reaver waved the sword at him. "Now come get the sword from me."

Logan charged him too quickly and was knocked backward, crashing down against his bedpost. The boy yelped and tried not to cry as he felt his scraped elbow and what would soon bloom into multiple bruises. The man's eyes opened wide as he heard Logan's cry, and he tossed the sword aside as if making the movements to leave, afraid the servants or even Jasper would hear, or what the Queen would do to him if she found out what he had done to hurt the boy.

Taking his chance, the prince scrambled for it and caught the sword by the handle. Quickly scampering to the door, Logan held the sword out in front of him, guarding the doorway, and refused to let Reaver out.

"What, did you want me to fight you again?" He had asked, backing up, as the boy approached, wielding the sharp point toward him.

"I am not a child," the six year old yelled, swinging the sword toward the only spot he could reach: Reaver's knees.

Before Logan even knew what was going on, the Hero had his cane in his hands, parrying the blow. Logan would not hold out for too long, it seemed, even if the boy had inherited some abilities from the Heroes' blood flowing through his veins.

A foreign sense of pride welled up in the empty chasm of Reaver's chest and the boy had him cornered just like that at the first sign of distraction.

"Bravo." Reaver spoke first, breaking the silence of the prince's swordsmanship; Logan had easily forced his weapon down as if the boy was twenty or thirty years older and a Hero himself, and all that remained was a stunned quiet.

"Tell me then. Who is my father if you've met him?" Logan ventured as soon as the second syllable left Reaver's lips.

The only thing the man could say as he began to slip readily into sparring position once more, unable to allow the child Logan to best him, was; "I am."

It would be almost another ten years before Logan discovered this man was not his father as he had previously thought.

* * *

"I told you never to speak to him without his mother present!" Sparrow hissed at him, her ridiculously strong hands gripping the Hero's collar, looking far too old for her age of only 50, as if the crown and throne had aged her far beyond old.

Reaver stared at her. "Shouldn't I get to know the future king of Albion?"

"He is not yet king, Reaver. Not while I live and breathe." Sparrow had thrown him back against the double doors of the war room. "Unless you intend to do away with me and prepare him for the throne at this age?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, your Majesty," The man replied dryly, "A child on the throne is far worse an idea than any others you have come up with."

"I do not want you near him, Reaver! You are not his father."

"Do you believe I would hurt him?" Reaver asked, brushing himself off as if the only injury he had sustained was a bruised ego and not the pain blossoming along his spine where he had hit the doorknob. "Ah, you think my tastes run toward little children without fathers now, do you?"

Sparrow's lips were pressed together tightly, turning white with the pressure. "You know very well what I mean. And I mean you not to be seen anywhere near my son."

"Am I not your friend?" Reaver responded, moving quickly away from the door once more, in case she decided to throw him against something else.

"You are not my son's friend!" The Queen had answered, her hands clenching to fists at her sides.

"I don't intend to be his friend, I intend to train him to be a Hero like myself."

"You are no true hero. You're a coward." She had replied, before turning on her heel and walking away, bristling angrily. Before she left the hallway, she threw over her shoulder the words: "I never want to see you again. I can't forgive you for what you did to Garth."

Reaver stood there for a moment, unable to comprehend what she had said, before regaining his composure and walking out proudly. As he went down the hall, he passed a fourteen year old Prince Logan. He had not yet grown into the too-long legs or gangly arms that would make him a intimidating figure in his adulthood, but the look of seriousness on his face was one he would wear his whole life, and had been wearing since childhood. For now he was an awkward teen, and one who looked as if he realized his whole life was a lie.

"You're not my father.." were the words that haunted Reaver's thoughts as he removed himself from the castle, passing Walter and his tiny bastard on their way to the child's room for some inane reason he didn't care to hear, and proceeded back to his manor.

Within the year, Sparrow had died of illness and the eldest boy was crowned King of Albion, with the young fool Walter acting as regent and advisor. Reaver had only shown his face afterward when truly necessary for business reasons.

* * *

Logan was eight years old when he first found out what sex was.

It was late at night, but he was long since awake. A nightmare about some darkness eating up his home had roused him, crying (even though boys of his age, almost _men,_ never should cry, just like his mother and Walter said) from his bed and in search of his mother. He was sure all of the servants were asleep, and he really wouldn't want them to see the crown prince crying as he was.

Logan's hair was mussed and grown long in front of his eyes; he knew he was due for a haircut soon enough but he wanted to grow his hair long enough to coif it upwards in a pompadour of sorts the way his mother's friend (his _father_, a voice in his mind corrected him) wore his. Of course, he just knew that Sparrow would never allow it. No son of hers would dress up like Reaver, she would always say, like Reaver was a kind of sickness one could catch by being near him or acting like him.

Logan wasn't sure why, he liked the stories Reaver would tell, about pirates. And Reaver never skipped the scary or gruesome parts the way Walter or his mother would.

He had never seen Reaver do anything bad, except for when his mother would grow cross with the man. That was usually when Reaver would say something that would make his mother's face bloom redder than he'd ever seen it before. It was never things the boy would understand. Or when Reaver would do something Logan never would be able to see until his mother would gasp loudly and slap him as hard as she could. Reaver would have a hand print as red as Sparrow's flushed face on his cheek where she had hit him. Logan knew that Sparrow would never hit him, so what Reaver had done must have been absolutely terrible every time.

But Logan knew that no matter what time it was, Sparrow would be willing to comfort him and no one else would have to know the weakness he displayed.

So he made his way from his dark bedroom, down the darkened hallway, to his mother's room. The door was shut but he could see the flickering of the fireplace from under the door, shining faintly into the hall. He could hear a low laugh that sounded like a man's and then a woman's soft cry. Logan wasn't sure what was going on, but Sparrow was definitely awake.

Wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his oversized nightshirt, he stood to his full height and pulled himself together. He had to be a tough young man for his mother, especially if she needed him in there, in case whoever it was in there with her was hurting her. There was another muffled noise from within, and Logan held his breath in case they heard him as he attempted to peek through the keyhole to see inside. If he turned a certain way and squinted just right, he could see where somebody was on the bed, their back to the keyhole. He knew that couldn't have been Sparrow's back, if only because his mother had dark hair braided down her back like always, and this person had a lighter shade of brown, almost blonde. Their hair was shorter and their back a lot more muscular than what he guessed his mother's back would have resembled. He knew it was a man's back, but why there was a shirtless man in his mother's room he did not know. All he knew was that whenever the man's back dipped lower out of sight, there would be more noises that sounded almost painful, and they sounded like Sparrow's voice.

Logan drew up his courage and the wooden sword perpetually at his hip, and tried the door. It was not locked. The boy threw it open as hard as he could, sending a beam of firelight out into the hall.

"Unhand my mother, knave!" Logan cried, his voice high and thin. The sword wavered in his hand when the man turned quickly and he soon realized it was Walter.

Logan dropped the sword with a clatter as Sparrow scrambled to cover herself with her sheets, grasping at her dressing gown and putting it on before her son or any of the servants (or worst of all, Jasper, the poor manservant who always seemed to walk in at the worst possible times) saw any indecency or impropriety.

"L-Logan, what are you doing in here? You should have been in bed ages ago!"

"I had a bad dream, Mummy.." was all the boy could muster, as Sparrow cast a glance at Walter. The man drew back, replaced his shirt, which was the only thing he had removed, beside his belts and weaponry, and adjusted his trousers before clearing his throat and looking away.

"You know better than to enter a room without knocking and announcing your presence first." Sparrow admonished the boy, her arms opening for him to go to her. "Now come to me and tell me what was wrong."

Logan knew he was in trouble, from the stern tone of Sparrow's voice, and he began to cry again in earnest. His mother pulled him into her embrace and sat him down on the bed beside her. "Tell me, my child."  
Logan recounted what had happened, from his sudden awakening, to when he burst into the room.

"I thought he had been hurting you, Mummy." Sparrow's face grew red much like it did when Reaver was around, but this time he knew it was for a different reason.

Walter had laughed softly and shaken his head, as he went back to the door and closed it once more, standing beside it in case anyone were to come in at this moment.

"Oh, my dear Logan, he wasn't hurting me.." She murmured, petting his hair back and fussing with the wavy pieces that hung low in his eyes. He lay his head down against her bosom, breathing in the sweet smell of the powder she wore after she bathed, and closed his eyes, slowly beginning to drift off to sleep in her arms.

"'M sorry, mummy.." The boy sleepily mumbled, stifling a yawn. Sparrow just smoothed her hand against her son's mussed hair and glanced toward Walter. The man caught her gaze, and pressed his lips together tighter in a thin half-smile beneath his beard. The Queen gestured for Walter to come beside her and shifted so the boy in her embrace was in her arms completely instead of seated on her lap. Logan stirred only a moment, sighing softly in his sleep, as Sparrow carefully passed him over to the man. Walter allowed Logan to settle in his arms, the boy's head tucked against his neck, while the Queen stood to her full height beside him, tightening the belt of her dressing gown.

Sparrow touched her young son's cheek before looking up to Walter. "Bring him back to his room, please. I'd rather Jasper or the rest of the servants didn't know you were here with me. You know how they talk."

Walter's voice was warm, if a bit coarse. "Of course, Milady."

"Logan adores you." She added, smiling in return, her fingertips brushing the boy's raven hair. "You're the closest thing he has to a _real _father."

Her thumb tenderly grazed the man's jawline as she did, and Walter cleared his throat softly. Sparrow's eyes snapped back to Walter's face and she pulled away.

"You're welcome to return to my bed once Logan is in his." Her tone was curt, but it was clear she was attempting to hide a smile.

"Yes, Milady." Walter answered, an unabashed smile of his own creeping across his features as he inclined his head in the best bow he could perform with the child in his arms. Sparrow nodded in return.

* * *

When Walter laid the boy down in his bed and brought the sheets up to his chin, Logan opened his eyes. "Father?" He asked, his voice groggy with sleep.

Walter touched the boy's head with his hand. "Hush, go to sleep." Logan obliged, nestling closer to the man. Walter gently nudged him away toward the pillow, which he wrapped his arms around and buried his face into.

Walter stood up carefully, making sure not to rouse the child. He kept silent as he strode toward the bedroom door.

As soon as he had his hand on the knob, feeling the loss of Walter's presence beside him, Logan called out: "Please don't go, Father."

Walter froze, slowly turning toward him. But it was too late to reply; Logan had already fallen back asleep.

When Walter returned to Sparrow's bed, he was quiet as she pulled him closer. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet her gaze. "If I had asked, would you accept a marriage proposal?"

Sparrow's face flushed a pale pink as she reached for his face. "What brought these thoughts to light?"

It was a long moment before Walter could answer. "The boy, Logan, he needs a father."

Sparrow regarded him coolly, searching his expression. "Is that all?"

"I..." He began, before looking away and wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, "My intentions are well-meaning."

"I do not doubt that, Walter." Sparrow replied, her voice taking on a more stern tone, more fitting of the Queen on her throne than the version of her he now beheld in his arms. "But you know I could not assent. It isn't proper, you know that."

Walter knew, of course. He always knew, and did not want her to be disgraced. After her traitor husband's execution, after the man had tried to kill Sparrow and Logan in their beds as they slept, to take a new lover so openly would cause so many rumors to spread. Rumors that would soon enough reach Logan's ears. She could not afford for that to happen.

"I do care very much for you, Walter. I.." Sparrow closed her mouth, working her throat as her stern voice broke. "But I cannot put my own happiness before Albion." Her eyes shone in the depleting firelight, quickly filling with tears that she attempted to wipe away with shaking hands. "Please do not ask me again."

* * *

**AN: I feel an explanation is in order but I won't elaborate unless someone asks, because then it'll just be me rambling. Also this was originally going to be Logan-centric but just. It turned into a general cast fic. And I'm probably going to put this on AO3 as well. Thank you for reading anyway! Please review. I could use some constructive criticism. Cheers. TFFLM**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So this is a thing I wrote randomly. Still headcanon based. Some intense Logan/Kalin in this chapter. It's vaguely sexual. Like PG-13 level? Which is my major otp ok. Thanks for reading. Reviews are much appreciated. I wrote this like last year I think oh my god.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Fable franchise. This is a not for profit fanwork. Thank you for reading.**

* * *

"They'll be expecting me to carry you over the threshold, I think." Logan murmured, looking all the more like he regretted ever taking any vows as he leaned in close to Kalin's ear so no one else heard him.

"No." She replied, solemnly, gripping his forearm. "This is good enough."

He pulled back, surprised, and she allowed him that response. "I still have not forgiven you." She added, laying her hand on his, enough for them to walk into the house ceremoniously.

Logan worked his throat softly, unable to speak as he led her in to where everyone was waiting. At first there were cheers but when the crowd of guests saw the newlyweds in no embrace, no show of love in the slightest, the sounds died down. Even if it were arranged with no feeling between the two beside animosity, they still had to adhere to tradition; what were they doing?

Of course Kalin was too proud to bow to petty traditions of a country that wasn't even her own.

Logan, however, knew his new bride hated him with all her being. He hated himself too, so it wasn't anything new. He'd been hated by others before but this was the one that hurt the worst.

* * *

"Are you asleep?" Kalin called softly, lying beside her new husband, long after the witnesses, listening in to see if they consummated anything, fell asleep.

"...No." Logan replied, his voice ragged. "How can I? You might smother me in my sleep."

Kalin's voice was a balm to his worry, even if the words she spoke were conduit to his fear: "I don't intend to kill you. The time for that is long passed."

"Mm," Logan responded softly, turning to lie on his side away from her, unable to speak once more in her presence.

Kalin didn't stir, she just lay on her back, arms crossed over her stomach. Soon enough she found sleep, though she dreamt once more of the darkness that haunted her.

Her dreams were interrupted by a swift kick to her leg and a soft cry of fear from beside her. Some time during the night, Logan had turned to face her, lying on his side and struggling like a cornered animal in his sleep. For a half second she watched him in his nightmare, fascinated, unable to turn away; until Logan jolted awake, eyes wide and fists flying. One blow hit her shoulder, but she was soon quick to catch his wrists and squeeze, pressing his arms down close to his chest. "Peace, Logan. Peace. There is no need to be frightened."

He looked up at her, eyes still frantic, though he soon began to calm down and she released his arms. Without warning, he pulled her into a close embrace, head on her shoulder and began to sob like a child. Taken aback, it was a moment before Kalin knew what to do with herself. She decided it was better for the both of them to let him be, not to push him away, and began smoothing back the former king's hair away from his pale face. What she could make out from his muffled sobs as he pressed his face to the crook of her neck was this; he had a nightmare, of course, one that involved the deaths of innocent people, _of course_; she cast him a pitiful glance, playing a tyrant must have been hellish on his conscience; and finally that it involved the Crawler. There it was, their one mutual fear.

Kalin found herself understanding more of the deposed despot as he spilled out his heart and soul to her in his harrowing sobs.

Logan pulled back, as soon as he murmured "...And I've loved you for ages, but still you hate me."

As if that were the end of it.

Kalin found herself staring at him once more, before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to his mouth, in a gesture of comfort, one her culture used more often as the darkness ravaged her people.

Logan responded in kind, planting a tender kiss to her open mouth, one hand sliding up to cup her face.

She didn't know how to respond, a new kind of hunger dawning in her, one she hadn't felt stir for years; Kalin began reciprocating hesitantly, meeting his mouth with her own as the embrace slowly grew in heat and passion.

Logan was the first to pull back, breathing fast as he leaned his forehead against hers. Kalin traced callused fingertips along the ridge of his lips, catching on the scars.

Slowly, he opened his eyes to meet hers, opening his mouth to speak.

"Hush." She pressed her fingertips to his mouth, "there is nothing that needs said."

The former king enveloped her hand in both of his and kissed each finger, down to her palm, where he lavished attention to it.

The breath caught in her throat and she watched him, enraptured. He glanced up at her at the sound, gaining eye contact.

"Logan, I—"

He silenced her: "Hush, remember? There is nothing that needs to be said."

She flushed, feeling like a child again as she slipped her free hand down and across his bared chest, feeling his ribs, and his many ragged scars, imagination going further where she was sure he wasn't wearing anything else.

Logan felt the heat radiating from her and he released her hand, his own palms sliding along her sides, feeling her lithe and muscular body beneath the thin shift. "Would you allow me to undress you further?"

Kalin soon began to wonder where this part of her had been hiding, deep beneath her reserved shell. "Yes."

Logan proceeded carefully, untying the thin strings that held the sleeveless under-dress closed in front. Pulling it apart and open, he gasped at her body.

Kalin's face burned, until she realized he had been startled by her tattoos. She only knew when Logan had begun to run his palm along the thick blue line that ran down between her breasts only to loop up toward her shoulders.

"Blue for... Sorrow. Am I right?" His voice trembled in the thick darkness. Kalin didn't answer, and he pulled his hand back as if she would bite him.

She responded with a sense of finality, that she knew what was between them would have to fracture and bring them closer. "Yes. I'm surprised you would remember that."

Logan let out a soft breath, and leaned in close to her. "You'd be surprised at the things I remember."

Kalin found her face heating at the memory, and she closed her eyes against it, before it sneaked into her mind once more unbidden and she found herself welcoming it with open arms. "That was many years ago."

The former king cupped her cheek in his palm. "Not so long ago. You still are as beautiful as the day I met you." He kissed her again, very carefully, as if afraid she may bite.

After a moment of silence, she cleared her throat with a quiet sound, and looked to where she could see the outline of Logan's face, but was unable to read the expression he wore.

Logan could see her bold profile, and he glanced down at her before lowering himself on top of her the same way he did almost a decade ago on one hot night in Aurora, where desperation and fear fueled their acts more than love or lust.


End file.
